k of
his travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital.
They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Once
the decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they could
hardly talk on other topics. Ethne, however, still kept him at her side.
Though she sat so calmly and still, though her face was quiet in its
look of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer,
she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls of
the church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it still
glowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would send
Harry Feversham away.

"I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of Lieutenant
Sutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should be
done by you alone without anybody's help or interference," she said, and
after she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she looked
towards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden light
narrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You suffered
horribly at Dongola," she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me."

"What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems rather
far away to me."

"Had you anything of mine with you?"

"I had your white feather."

"But anything else? Any little thing which I had given you in the other
days?"

"Nothing."

"I had your photograph," she said. "I kept it."

Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her.

"You did!"

Ethne nodded her head.

"Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presents
and addressed them to your rooms."

"Yes, I got them in London."

"But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all your
letters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hall
to be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heard
your step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows.
But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keep
it and the feathers together." She added after a moment:--

"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all the
time."

"I had no right to anything," said Feversham.

There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone.

"What will you do now?" she asked.

"I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way we
meet."

"You will let Colonel Durrance kno